‘Bye,’ I say flatly, and he is going, the escape artist, out of the exit behind a group of middle-aged bikers with ZZ Top beards and matching Blondie bandannas. He is running out on me again. Something or someone better to do. Something better to see. As I watch him speeding through the exit, he turns once to catch my eye and mouths what I think is ‘I’ll make it up to you’, and just as the back of his head disappears through the doorway, flanked by denim and leather, I see a shiny flash of red.

Outside on the pavement, the night air is warm and muggy. The stars above us are diamanté studs to my disappointment. The moon a mocking orb. I steer Dad clear of a pile of McDonald’s cartons and wrappers, and around a smashed beer bottle.

‘So, you had a good night, Dad, apart from that last bit?’ I say, as we start to walk home. ‘You are OK, aren’t you?’

‘For pity’s sake, I’m fine!’ exclaims Dad warmly. ‘And yes, I did, pet. A really good time. Did you?’

‘Yes, very much.’ This is true; I enjoyed the concert, I love that Dad and I have turned that corner, yet all I can think about is Salvi pushing through that exit. The flash of red. The flash to my heart of disappointment, fear and envy.

‘Kemp is very good company. I like that boy.’

Why is Dad talking about Kemp? I can only focus on Salvi. Red hair on black sheets.

‘Yes.’

‘Is it serious, you and that man?’

‘Why are you calling him “that man”? You sound Victorian.’

‘I’m not sure about him; I wonder how much you are.’

‘Oh! Well, you haven’t had a lot to go on, so far,’ I say. I feel the chasm opening up between Dad and me again. A fracture, creaking with disapproval and unsaid things. I haven’t got a lot to go on, either, have I, when it comes to Salvi? I haven’t got a particularly compelling defence to make, should one be required. ‘What are you not sure about?’

‘Well, for one,’ says Dad, ‘he has never shaken my hand. That’s just basic politeness, unless he thinks it doesn’t extend to blind people. Two, he’s very full of himself. I had a conversation with him, towards the end, when you went to the loo. It was very illuminating. He talks about himself to the exclusion of everything else. He’s full of stories, and I bet I shouldn’t believe half of them. Three, he kept calling me “sir”, which to be honest is worse than being “blessed” all the time. And “boss”. I didn’t like it.’

‘What’s wrong with “boss”? That’s quite nice!’